


Timeout

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26494774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Fuji sits still in front of his computer screen, relaxed into his chair and with his hands easy in his lap, and when his monitor flickers with the first glow of the incoming video Fuji is ready, a well-practiced smile curving at his lips as Tezuka’s face comes into view." Tezuka takes a break and Fuji appreciates the connection.
Relationships: Fuji Shuusuke/Tezuka Kunimitsu
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Timeout

It takes a minute for the connection to steady.

Fuji is expecting that. He’s aware of the distance between himself and Tezuka; it’s too much on his mind for him to forget even with the promise of a real-time connection flickering on his computer screen. With half a world between them a few seconds’ delay in reply is only reasonable. So Fuji sits still in front of his computer screen, relaxed into his chair and with his hands easy in his lap, and when his monitor flickers with the first glow of the incoming video Fuji is ready, a well-practiced smile curving at his lips as Tezuka’s face comes into view. The blue light from the computer screen catches at Tezuka’s glasses, flashes them white and opaque for a moment as he leans in towards his own monitor and reaches to adjust something at the side of the computer; then he’s leaning back into his chair, his gaze coming into focus on his computer screen, and Fuji’s smile slips free of his control to beam wide and unrestrained across his face.

“Tezuka,” he says, and his voice is as warm as his smile, soft with a tenderness that still feels like a confession, even after all this time. “It’s good to see you.”

_ “Fuji,” _ Tezuka says. His voice is even, calm as ever with no audible indication of the adrenaline Fuji can feel beating a little harder against the inside of his chest and flickering trembling tension through his fingertips.  _ “You look well.” _

Fuji huffs a laugh, breathing out some of the tension in his chest as he turns his palms down against his thighs and presses to force them steady. His fingers are warm against his legs, glowing heat even through the fabric of the uniform shorts he is still wearing. “I just got back from practice,” he says. “I thought about taking a shower but I didn’t want to be late for our call.”

_ “Mmm,” _ Tezuka hums. There isn’t any particular weight to the sound, no suggestive dip beyond the usual purr of his voice at the inside of his chest, but Fuji still feels the resonance of it shiver straight down his spine to curve his back and arch his shoulders as if in answer to the ticklish weight of a touch. Tezuka shifts in his chair, turning to align himself a little more precisely with the camera of his computer before he lifts his gaze to look directly into the lens.  _ “How has your performance been?” _

Fuji shrugs. “I’ve been doing well,” he says, speaking with an ease that belies the tension in his wrists, the tremor in his thighs, the self-conscious strain in him he can feel tightening with every breath. “I made it through the latest round of qualifiers.”

_ “I saw,” _ Tezuka says, just barely too fast for plausible calm, and Fuji lets himself smile at this surrender to anticipation from the man gazing determination from his computer screen.  _ “I’ve been keeping up on the results. You’ve been outperforming your old record.” _

Fuji hums. “It’s the extra practice paying off.”

_ “You had a new serve in the last match you played,” _ Tezuka observes. He still hasn’t looked away from his camera. Fuji knows Tezuka can’t see his face that way, that his gaze is fixed on the lens instead of on the projected image of the smile tugging at Fuji’s lips, but the illusion is convincing all the same, as if there is no more distance than a desk between them and Tezuka’s attention is sweeping in to cross the gap.  _ “Have you been working on that?” _

Fuji’s smile tugs sharper at the corner of his mouth. “Among other things.”

_ “Like what?” _

“Mm,” Fuji hums. “Nothing you need to worry about.” He pauses for the span of a breath, a single inhale held close on two different sides of the earth; and then he opens his eyes and lifts his gaze from Tezuka’s image to look straight into the lens of his own camera. “Yet.”

Tezuka huffs a breath. Fuji smiles and looks back at his screen, where Tezuka’s gaze has dropped to look at his own monitor in turn. His expression has softened, easing back from the stern focus of attention into the sincerity Fuji’s response startled out of him. For a moment the distance between them is forgotten, the awkwardness of their necessarily virtual connection swept aside, and Fuji feels nothing as keenly as the overwhelming urge to reach out and press his fingers to the smile he has startled to the corner of Tezuka’s lips. He stares at his computer screen, caught between his own teasing smiles by the weight of his response, and when he speaks the words slip past his lips of their own accord, honesty freeing itself from his tongue without waiting for his intention. “I miss you.”

Tezuka’s lashes flutter as he shuts his eyes as if under the shock of a blow. Fuji can see his lips part as he exhales too softly for his microphone to pick up. He keeps his gaze lowered as he speaks, murmuring low against the receiver.  _ “I know.” _

Fuji’s throat is tight, fixing around the emotion that always seems to swamp him when Tezuka is near, that swells against the bounds he has carefully constructed for it to sweep all his composure away before the tidal force of his response. He blinks hard, fighting with the heat at his eyes before surrendering to the necessity of bowing his head so his hair can pull a curtain before his expression. “I wish you were here.”

He sounds plaintive, shattered, desperate. Fuji isn’t accustomed to asking for anything from anyone else; he has built his life on the foundation of his own strength, on an independence that he held close to himself for all the long years of his childhood. But Tezuka has always undermined that assurance, has always held within him the means to crumble Fuji’s confidence to dust, and in his absence Fuji feels himself caught in an endless fall with his gravity drawn continents and oceans away. His throat is tight, his eyes are hot, he can feel the weight of tears building against the wall of his lashes; and then there is the sound of a breath, and  _ “Fuji” _ Tezuka says, and Fuji lifts his head.

Tezuka is looking straight at him, gazing out from the screen of Fuji’s monitor with the full focus of his gaze clear behind the lenses of his glasses. His mouth is firm, his lips pressed into the flat line that allows no weakness, no surrender. Fuji looks at his screen, and into Tezuka’s steady gaze, and he feels his breathing ease, feels the gravity of his world reorient itself to the support of Tezuka’s attention.

_ “Fuji,” _ Tezuka says again, still staring directly at his camera.  _ “Are you listening?” _

Fuji’s mouth twists onto a smile at the question itself, as if there has ever been a moment when the sound of Tezuka’s voice wasn’t enough to command the full force of his attention. “I am.”

_ “Good.” _ Tezuka’s chin lowers fractionally, his gaze shadows to unreadability for a moment.  _ “Are you alone?” _

Fuji’s skin prickles with a shiver not of hope as much as certainty as anticipation he hadn’t known to feel tightens to a knot low in his belly. Heat expands through him, blossoming out into his veins and flexing against his thighs as he draws a careful breath and casts a deliberate glance towards his shut bedroom door. “Yes.”

_ “Good.” _ Tezuka sits up straighter, adjusting his posture in his chair as he lifts his hands from his lap to rest his wrists at the edge of the desk in front of him. Fuji watches the movement as Tezuka spreads his fingers to interlace them carefully at the edge of the camera view, and as Tezuka’s hands come up he lets his own slide down and into the shadows beneath his desk. He sits forward in his seat, sliding closer so he can angle his knees open under the desk and lean his shoulders in to cover the movement of his hands fitting between his thighs, and at the other end of the call Tezuka draws a breath and opens his mouth to speak.

_ “I think about you every day.” _ His voice is level, as calmly flat as if he is describing a training menu for the tennis team; it makes the words land with the force of absolute sincerity, a simple statement of truth more than a flowery exaggeration. Fuji presses his palm against his hips, grinding in against himself with the full strength of his arm, and Tezuka’s lashes dip over the dark of his eyes as he goes on.  _ “I wonder what you’re doing. I think about how your practice is going, what you’re doing for training.” _ Tezuka’s throat flexes, working in over a swallow before he takes a deliberate breath.  _ “What new techniques you’ll have to show me when we play next.” _

Fuji’s throat tightens around the force of his breathing, straining it into the start of a moan before he can ease the tension into a breathless laugh instead. “You’re that sure I have something new to show you?”

_ “I am,” _ Tezuka says, instant and unhesitating, and Fuji bows his head and shudders over a breath as he lifts the pressure of his hand so he can slip his fingers down under the waistband of his shorts. He’s hot to the touch, his cock straining hard against the grip of his hand; Fuji squeezes against himself, lifting his chin to offer his expression to the light overhead as he groans through the surge of heat that throbs through his body.  _ “You always exceed my expectations, Fuji.” _

Fuji works his grip against himself, pulling along his cock as he gusts not-quite-a laugh. “It’s the only way I can hope to keep up with you.”

_  
_ _ “You do,” _ Tezuka says.  _ “It is the knowledge you are following that urges me forward, towards the future where we will face each other again.” _

“Yes,” Fuji says, and doesn’t even care that his voice is trembling, that the rhythmic motion of his arm is printed clear under the pattern of his speeding breath. “I will challenge you again, Tezuka.”

_ “Yes,” _ Tezuka says, his voice low and steady, unflinching as a wall as Fuji shudders through another open-mouthed gasp for air.  _ “I will be waiting for you.” _

Fuji’s breathing is catching in his chest, drawing tighter and higher in his throat as his fingers clench to friction and his wrist flexes over motion. “You’ll wait for me, Tezuka?”

_ “Yes.” _ There is no uncertainty in Tezuka’s voice, no hesitation in his gaze when Fuji looks at his monitor again. His eyes are certain, his lashes lining his gaze to dark, and he’s looking straight out of Fuji’s screen, as fixed in his attention as if he is sitting in the space of Fuji’s bedroom, as if he can feel the pace of Fuji’s catching breathing as well as hear it.  _ “And you will come to me, Fuji.” _

“Oh,” Fuji gasps, and his head tilts back, his eyes shutting as his hips tilt up and his grip flexes. “Tezuka.”

Fuji’s body is tightening, the strain of orgasm building in every part of him, from the heat throbbing against the force of his grip to the arch of his spine rocking him forward and the flex of his thighs against the chair beneath him. His vision is hazy, fallen out of his attention as the roar of his heartbeat builds in his ears to push the details of the world into an unimportant backdrop for the tension building in his belly and quivering through his shoulders. But even so, with pleasure cresting to a peak in every part of him, the sound of his name:  _ “_Fuji _” _ sharp and short from his computer commands his attention back to his screen.

Tezuka is leaning in closer to his camera, his shoulders rocking forward and his gaze intent. He’s not looking at the lens anymore; his gaze has dropped to his own screen, his attention pinned to the image of Fuji in front of him.

_ “Look at me,” _ he says, and it’s not an order but Fuji obeys anyway, lifting his lashes so he can turn his head up to look into the answering lens of his camera. He can’t see the look on Tezuka’s face, can’t pick out the details of the other’s reaction from the haze of his periphery, but he can hear the exhale at Tezuka’s lips, and the relief of the note is enough to tighten Fuji against the very precipice of satisfaction.

“Tezuka,” Fuji says, his voice dipping the name to seduction, to shadowed allure; and then the knot in his belly fists tighter, his thighs flex against the chair as he reaches to clutch at the edge of the desk before him, and when sound spills past his lips it comes with no deliberate control at all. “ _Tezuka_.”

_ “Fuji,” _ Tezuka grates, his voice scraping low on heat, and Fuji feels the tension in him giving way, going slack in his thighs and soft in his expression as anticipation slips over the edge to irrevocability. He holds his gaze on the camera lens, staring into Tezuka’s eyes as his lips part on wordless certainty; and then his body jerks, his fingers spasm, and he’s coming, spilling across the grip of his hand as he keeps his face turned up for Tezuka’s attentive gaze. It’s Tezuka who groans, a low note almost of pain as he watches Fuji come, and Fuji shudders another pulse of heat over his fingers under Tezuka’s watch. His body trembles, pleasure coursing through him in a wave, and it’s only as the involuntary flex of his limbs gives way that he can take a breath and blink his vision back into focus at his computer screen.

Tezuka is watching him. His focus on his camera is abandoned, forgotten somewhere in Fuji turning his face up to let Tezuka watch his orgasm rise and break over him; his head is angled down, now, his gaze so dark behind his glasses that Fuji’s skin prickles with shivering heat just for the sight of Tezuka staring at him. Fuji looks at Tezuka watching him, his breathing catching in his chest and his sticky fingers still bracing against his length; and then he loosens his grip, and eases his hand away, and leans in towards the desk in front of him.

Fuji braces his elbow against the support, steadying his arm as he lifts his hand to cup his chin and support his easy forward lean. “Tezuka.”

He gives no further explanation. There’s just the name, familiar and warm with the pleasure still singing through his satisfied body; with his lips curving on a smile there is no edge of expectation, no tension of command. But Tezuka’s lashes flutter behind his glasses, his lips part on a breath like relief, and when he bows his head it is to drop a hand out-of-frame and into the shadows beneath his own desk.

Fuji doesn’t say anything. His knees feel shaky, stripped of their stability by his release, and he’s in no hurry to pull himself back to composure. Pleasure is still heavy in his shoulders and tingling at his fingertips, and it’s joining to something more, a low hum of satisfaction starting at the back of his head as he watches Tezuka work his clothes open. Tezuka doesn’t rush, doesn’t hurry himself into the clumsy speed someone else might; but the strain of the effort sits at the line of his jaw and flexes across his shoulders, until Fuji can read the other’s arousal without ever so much as glimpsing the shadows under the edge of his desk. Tezuka’s actions are clear in their intent, however deliberately he restrains himself, until Fuji can see the grip of the other’s hand from the angle of his shoulders, can read the work of his fingers from the part of his lips. Tezuka lifts his head up, turning his features to the light as his expression softens with the first rush of sensation, and Fuji leans in towards his camera and takes a breath to murmur speech.

“Tezuka,” he says again, soft as a whisper at the microphone of the camera. “Do you know how much I think about you?” Tezuka rocks back into his chair, giving up the tension of his body to the support, and Fuji watches him as he goes on speaking, low and gentle as if he’s framing a lullaby to ease away Tezuka’s habitual strain.

“I think about practicing with you,” he says, the words falling easy with the sincerity they carry. “I think about looking across the courts and seeing you watching me from the sidelines. I think about playing against you, about the ways I could win points from you, the lengths I’d have to go to.” Fuji’s lashes dip and he lets himself tip farther forward, giving way to relaxation against the support of his hand at his chin as he continues without so much as a flicker in the steady tone of his voice. “I think about getting on my knees and licking the sweat off your thighs.”

Tezuka jerks, his body shuddering in instant answer to the weight of Fuji’s words. His eyes open, his gaze flickering up to seek out Fuji’s, and Fuji curves a smile across his lips and goes on speaking.

“I think about kissing you,” he says, low and soft like a whisper, like a secret he’s sharing across the miles and oceans between them, a connection formed by the sound of his voice and the heavy-lashed attention in Tezuka’s face. “In your dorm room. In my bedroom. Out on the tennis courts, against the fence or down alongside the net.” Fuji takes a breath and slouches himself farther into the support of his hand, feigning nonchalance as his blood runs hotter with a satisfaction as deep as the pleasure that he spilled over his fingers, as certain as the flush spreading itself across Tezuka’s cheeks.

“Sometimes I think about touching you while we’re playing a game,” he says. “During a court change, or a timeout. Or during a set, with points on the board and while you’re waiting for my serve.” Tezuka is still watching his screen but his gaze is going heavy, his attention drifting into the shadows of imagination, and Fuji watches him and dips his voice a little softer, lilting his speech into a rhythm to lull Tezuka into the space of his own fantasy.

“I could come right over the net,” he says. “You would be waiting for me, your racket in your hand and still ready to draw my serve in to you. You would look at me, and I would smile, and then I’d come down on my knees in front of you, and push up your shirt, and kiss against the flat of your stomach and the edge of your hip and down, all the way down, until—”

Fuji pauses there, letting the suggestion unfold itself into understanding in the shared silence between them. Tezuka is staring at him, his eyes dark and endless with heat, with the anticipation that is softening his mouth from its strict line into a waiting part. Fuji looks at him, feeling the weight of Tezuka’s expectation, savoring the intimation of surrender; and then he takes a breath, and speaks with calm clarity.

“I’d take you into my mouth all at once.” Tezuka’s lashes dip, his throat flexing on a sound that goes unvoiced, and Fuji presses on, speaking into his gained advantage as he leans farther over his desk. “I wouldn’t give you time to react before my lips press against you and my tongue slides along your cock.” Fuji parts his lips to touch his tongue to the corner of his mouth, a flicker of deliberate action, and he is rewarded by the ripple of sound in Tezuka’s throat as he groans in the depths of his chest. Fuji’s lips threaten to curve themselves up into a smile; but Fuji closes his mouth instead and tips his head to rest more certainly upon his palm.

“You can hold onto my hair,” Fuji says with as much nonchalance as he can put on the words, and he reaches up to push his free hand through the heavy locks to indicate. “I’ve been growing it out lately.” He tosses his hair back from his face and curls his fingers in against it to indicate. At the other side of the call Tezuka’s head bows forward, his breath gusting from him in desperate surrender, and Fuji smiles unseen and lets his hand fall.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “Pull me in to move faster, push back to slow me into long strokes.” Tezuka’s head is still bowed, his hair falling dark in front of his eyes, but Fuji can still see the part of his mouth, where he’s given up the tension of focus for the soft weight of desire. His shoulder is moving more clearly, too; the flex of his wrist is carrying up the length of his arm, now, the motion conveyed straight through the well-trained muscle. Fuji can see the speeding force of the other’s action just from that, can parse the desperate grip of Tezuka’s fingers from the tight-fisted action of his arm, and when he leans in closer it’s to murmur to the microphone, his tone as intimate as if he’s pressing to Tezuka’s ear.

“I love it,” Fuji tells him, his eyes on the screen and his attention below it, tangling into the shadows beneath Tezuka’s desk where the other’s fingers are clutching desperation against himself. “The feel of your body under my hands, the texture of the court on my knees, the taste of you against my tongue.” He licks at his lower lip again, deliberately slow, and Tezuka’s head lifts to track the movement. His hair is still falling over his eyes but the dark of his attention is unmistakable, skipping from Fuji’s hair to his eyes to the soft shape of his mouth. Fuji holds them still like that, trapping Tezuka’s attention in the space between his parted lips; and then he lifts his gaze from his screen and opens his eyes to look directly into the lens of his camera. Tezuka groans again, bright and sharp and clear, and Fuji lets his smile pull his mouth into an invitation.

“Tezuka,” he says, warm and dark and low; and Tezuka shudders and falls back into his chair, his chin tilting up and head dropping as he surrenders to inevitability. Fuji looks back to the screen in time to see the column of Tezuka’s throat flex on anticipated voice; and then Tezuka’s shoulders jerk, his lips part, and anticipation gives way to the surrender of a moan. Fuji’s skin prickles with heat, his body glowing with secondhand satisfaction as he watches Tezuka come, and as Tezuka spends himself it is Fuji who relaxes into his chair as tension melts into the satisfaction of shared pleasure.

Tezuka only gives up a moment to the relief of orgasm. Fuji has a heartbeat to watch Tezuka’s throat flex on voiceless satisfaction, to see the other’s shoulders trembling through the first flush of relief; then Tezuka’s lips press together, he swallows back the fragility of a heat-shattered voice, and when he lifts his head his expression has drawn together into composure once more. He keeps his gaze down, keeps his head ducked as he recollects himself from his brief indulgence in slack ease, and Fuji lets his chair take the support of his body as he watches, a smile tugging at his mouth as Tezuka replaces his façade. Tezuka reaches for a tissue to wipe his hand clean, bows his head as he tugs his clothes back into place, and when he lifts his chin to look back to the camera once more his gaze is steady and controlled. If Fuji hadn’t just watched him come he wouldn’t have the faintest idea what had just happened, even though Tezuka’s heart must still be racing with the aftershocks of pleasure.

_ “Thank you,” _ Tezuka says, as calmly as if he’s speaking of a completed training practice, or as if they are reaching over the dividing net in a court to clasp each other’s hand in camaraderie.  _ “That was helpful, Fuji.” _

Amusement tugs sharp at the corner of Fuji’s mouth, and Fuji lets it draw a smile free of his control. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “It’s good to be appreciated.” Tezuka bows his head, dipping his chin forward so his hair sweeps over his face, and Fuji gazes at him, his mouth still clinging to its shape even as the tension of it shifts from laughter to something heavier that flexes his throat on tension and softens the shape heavy and bittersweet. A lock of Tezuka’s hair falls forward to catch at the bar of his glasses, and Fuji swallows and curls his fingers in against his palm. “I miss you, Tezuka.”

Tezuka doesn’t speak, doesn’t part his lips to voice an answer; but his lashes flutter, his expression softening for a moment of rare surrender. He lifts his head upward, turning his face as if seeking out a blessing, or begging for a gift of divine strength, and Fuji can see the shadow of his lashes form to arcs across his cheeks. They are like that for a moment, held in a breath of shared, impossible desire; and then Tezuka draws a breath, and Fuji bows his head in surrender as Tezuka lowers his gaze to seek him out once more.

_ “Don’t be careless,” _ he says.

Fuji breathes out a brief, sharp laugh. “I know.”

Tezuka nods.  _ “Good,” _ he says.  _ “You should rest.” _

“Yes,” Fuji says, and reaches for his mouse. “Have a good afternoon, Tezuka.”

Tezuka’s lashes flutter, his gaze lifts to his camera. For a moment he’s looking right at Fuji, his gaze intent even over the distance, even over the miles.  _ “Goodnight, Fuji.” _ Fuji looks at Tezuka’s image on his screen, at the illusion of being seen; and then he raises his own gaze to his camera and opens his eyes to answer Tezuka’s attention with his own. He curves a smile at his lips, and lifts a hand to wave, and closes out of the video without looking away.


End file.
